


Rubbed Raw

by helens78



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Denim, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-22
Updated: 2005-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP, dying-for-it!Mac, smirky Methos.  A bit of sweater porn thrown in, and some rampant abuse of an innocent pair of blue jeans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rubbed Raw

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after _Chivalry_ but before _Timeless_.

Methos tasted like beer. No surprise there. Sometimes Methos smelled like beer from half the room away, usually after a Quickening, so tasting beer on his lips -- on the rub of his tongue against MacLeod's -- didn't surprise Mac in the least.

But the firm _shift-rub_ of hips against hips, hard cock sliding against half-hard cock, that was a shock.

"Didn't think you were interested," Mac managed to whisper. "Thought you'd have done it already."

"Don't assume, MacLeod," Methos whispered back. "Timing is everything."

Timing. Methos knew just how long to spend kissing, how long to linger with his tongue flicking across Mac's lips, licking into the corners of Mac's mouth, rubbing and thrusting in deep until Mac was half-collapsed between Methos and the counter. Mac reached up to clutch at Methos's arms and found only wool under his fingers. Sweater. That could be taken care of. He reached down past Methos's waist, ran his hand up Methos's ass and dragged the hem of his sweater up until he was touching bare skin. Hot bare skin under his fingertips and soft wool brushing against the back of his hand while the taste of beer was still stinging at his lips. _That_ was Methos.

"How do you--?" And it seemed odd to be the one doing all the talking when it was Methos all over him, Methos whose mouth was insistent and whose tongue was warm and demanding and practically fucking Mac's mouth already. "How do you, what do you -- what do you want to do?" Mac got out, a handful of words at a time between those beer-flavored kisses. Let the older man lead. It was only polite.

"You." Not a very specific answer. Mac dug his fingernails into the small of Methos's back and scratched hard; Methos shoved himself forward and grabbed for Mac's wrists, pinning his hands to the countertop. "Don't do that again."

Methos could be threatening when he wanted to be. Mac knew what it felt like to have Methos's blade at his throat. And he also knew how it felt to _know_, beyond any question, that his life wasn't in danger. That he could fight back and call a bluff, and send Methos sprawling. He'd done that once.

This time he gave in. "I won't," he whispered. "Just tell me what you want."

The timbre changed; Methos pulled back and looked into Mac's eyes. Most of Methos's expressions were guarded and obscured; this one was transparent. Or maybe just superficial. It didn't really matter.

_What can I get?_

"Bed," Methos decided. "Let's do this in bed."

Mac was all for doing it in bed. Bed had lube nearby; bed was easier on a 400-year-old man's spine than doing it standing up against a counter. All right, not that numbers really mattered when both men had stopped aging in their thirties, but it was the principle of the matter. He glanced down at his wrists. "Letting me up, or are you planning to drag me?"

"I could." Methos slid his tongue out over his lips, an all-too-familiar grin coming over his face. "I might like to." He let Mac's hands go. "Another time."

"What makes you think there's going to be another time?" Mac asked. Methos narrowed his eyes a bit, tilted his head an inch and pressed his thigh forward, shoving it between Mac's legs. Mac groaned, curling forward, hands coming up to grip Methos's upper arms, and there was no denying that Mac was fully hard now and nearly ready to beg for it.

"That's what," Methos whispered. His breath was hot against Mac's ear, and he flicked his tongue out, teasing Mac's earlobe. "Don't play hard-to-get, Mac. It doesn't suit you."

Not fair. Definitely not fair. Hard-to-get suited Methos fine.

"All right," Mac said, nodding and getting his eyes open. "Bed."

He gave Methos a light push, and Methos turned around, stripping his sweater off as he moved across the loft. The sweater landed on the armchair, the t-shirt over the back of the couch, and Methos barely paused to step out of his shoes and pull off his socks before passing over the threshold between living room and bed. By the time he got to the bed, he had the top button of his jeans unsnapped, and Mac realized he'd better start following Methos across the room if he didn't want to be left behind.

Methos turned around and sat down on the foot of the bed while Mac moved out of the kitchen. Mac wasn't as careless with his clothes as Methos had been; Mac liked to have things in order. So the overshirt came off, the undershirt, belt, shoes, socks, trousers, all in a neat pile next to the bed. Methos reached out and tucked his fingers into the elastic of Mac's waistband, pulling Mac closer by his boxers. "Come here."

Thank God for being dark for a Scot; the blush wasn't going to show. Mac held still while Methos dragged his boxers down and off, held still while Methos licked his lips again and looked from Mac's cock to his eyes and back again. And then there was another smirk, eyes narrowed again, and Mac tried not to breathe too hard or look away. Which was foolish at best. _What do you think you'll do? Give away how much you want this?_

Methos slid one hand up Mac's inner thigh and wrapped his fingers (_God_, those long, nimble fingers) around Mac's cock. His other hand came up to Mac's hip, fingers digging in to hold Mac steady. And Mac needed the support, needed it badly by the time Methos opened his mouth and started sinking down on Mac's cock. Just there. Just like that. Easy, matter-of-fact, with Mac standing naked in his bedroom and Methos sitting down on the foot of his bed. Mac reached up and ran his hands through Methos's hair. Too short to get a grip on. Probably on purpose; Mac couldn't imagine anyone having that sort of an advantage over Methos. And the advantage was all his; Methos's hands held Mac just tight enough that Mac couldn't shove forward and control the pace. Not that he'd want to. God, no, he wasn't thinking of that at all. Methos knew exactly what he was doing, his tongue seeking out all the sensitive spots on Mac's cock and licking, sliding over them, rubbing and pressing until Mac wasn't sure his legs would hold him up anymore. He reached down, steadied himself with a grip on Methos's shoulders, and Methos made a soft sound and moved his mouth off Mac's cock.

"Need to lie down?"

"Please."

Mac crawled onto the bed, rolled onto his back and spread his legs. For a moment, he thought Methos was going to demand another half-dozen _please_s, or some other kind of concession, and he knew he'd give Methos nearly anything he asked for. But there was nothing -- just another smirky little grin, and Methos stretched out between Mac's legs, put a hand at the base of his cock to hold it in position, and started sucking all over again.

This time Methos's other hand was free to stroke and scratch Mac's balls, rubbing lightly at the skin until Mac was squirming under him. _Squirming._ Methos certainly wasn't the first person to work a squirm out of Mac, but he was the first in... oh, a number of years. Mac was quickly losing the ability to count, and trying to remember _who_ was just bringing back memories of Gabriel Piton and a great deal of champagne, which didn't go well with the faint scent of beer still lingering and Methos's hard, hot, insistent mouth. _Stay here with me_, it seemed to be saying, and then the scrape of teeth up Mac's shaft sealed it. _Stay._ Mac dropped his hands to the bedcovers, twisted and gripped them hard, and groaned out loud, close, _ready_.

Methos must have been able to read the signs, because he just kept going -- one hard suck after another, a twist of his hand at the base of Mac's cock, and Mac relaxed, let himself go. Release whited out his vision, sent him into long, shivering moans, and he panted and twisted under Methos's lips until the last of it was gone and Methos was moving up, licking his lips audibly as he settled down on top of Mac.

"_Anything_," Mac breathed, because it was all he could think to say.

"No," Methos answered.

Mac stared. He'd heard wrong. He grabbed at Methos's shoulders.

"_No_," Methos repeated, bending down to kiss Mac's forehead. "Anything's too open an offer. Try again."

"Fuck me?" It was still a little soon even with an Immortal's recovery time, but Mac could take it.

"Not tonight. Try again."

"I'll suck you."

"Your teeth aren't sharp enough. Try--"

"Just tell me what you _want_. Please."

Methos rolled over onto his back, pulling Mac with him. "Your hand. Rubbing me through denim. _Hard_. Can you do that?"

Mac nodded, bracing himself with one hand on the bed, the other moving between Methos's legs. "How hard?" he asked, starting to press down, rubbing and stroking.

"Harder than that," Methos chuckled, but hard or not, the stroke caught him the right way and his head went back on the pillow as his throat arched. "_Oh._ Keep going."

_Keep going._ Mac could do that. And if Methos wanted to be rubbed raw by the end of it, Mac was more than willing to oblige him. He pressed down again, rubbed hard, but what Methos seemed to want was rough, almost brutal pressure with the heel of Mac's hand while Methos controlled the pace and squirmed underneath him.

Methos's eyes were closed, breath coming short and sharp. Mac growled down at him, low in his throat, and pressed harder. Methos cursed in a language Mac didn't recognize -- some variety of ancient Greek? -- and came, teeth snapped tight together, cock jerking hard against Mac's hand. Mac eased up as soon as it was over; there was pain and then there was _pain_, and he didn't expect Methos to want both.

He rolled over, resting on his back at Methos's side. There was more than room enough for two.

It was a while before Methos caught his breath. He let out another pained noise and squirmed again, adjusting his cock. Healing factors could work wonders for a cock abraded by denim, but they couldn't do much for the sticky mess left after a body-shaking orgasm.

"Want me to get a towel?" Mac murmured.

"Yeah," Methos murmured back, "yeah, that'd be great."

Mac slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom. By the time he got back, Methos had stripped out of his jeans, flicked off the lights in the loft, and was pulling the bedcovers back. Mac tossed the damp towel at him; it hit Methos in the shoulder before Methos looked up and grabbed it.

"What makes you think I'm not making you sleep on the couch?" Mac asked, pulling back the covers on the other side of the bed and slipping in.

Methos cleaned himself up with a few more hisses and winces and dropped the towel over the side of the bed. He looked up at Mac with a grin. Same smirk; different meaning.

"This," he said softly, and he leaned over and kissed Mac again. Gently this time; soft and slow and easy. He barely tasted of beer at all. Mac found himself reaching out, wanting more.

More was not forthcoming. "Good night, Mac," Methos murmured. He settled in to bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, rolling to his side and facing away from Mac. Mac blinked at him for a few seconds, then shrugged and settled in himself. He'd be surprised if Methos was still there in the morning.

_-end-_


End file.
